


Steeling a Scene (A Time and a Place)

by neifile7



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Ben-wa teasing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neifile7/pseuds/neifile7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's been on a toy kick; Ianto prefers games. Set early in s2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steeling a Scene (A Time and a Place)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reiley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reiley/gifts).



> Originally written for the TW/DW Porn Battle VI (prompts: toys, telepathy, the Plass; story uses all three, if you squint). Thanks to 51stcenturyfox and cruentum. This one's for kel_reiley.

He rolls the spheres gently, absently in his trouser pocket as he taps one-handed at his terminal, the faint click of metal on metal barely noticeable under the louder sounds of mouse and ancient keyboard.  Right, research’s mostly done, and in any case he’s done the bulk of it hands-on, as he prefers.

 

So he knows the stainless steel isn’t cold at all, next to his body heat, still less inside him. He’s worked out that the balls chink softly with the slightest movement, a maddening, rolling massage. They tickle and float by turns: ever the traditionalist, he’d stuck to a classic design, a sliver of vibrating metal in one, the thimble of mercury in the other. He’d wondered if they would simply drop too low, put uncomfortable pressure on the guardian ring, and the answer’s no.  He’s experimented with different speeds for tugging them out, rocking and postures that ramp sensation up or down, and he’s excused himself from the Hub a couple of nights just to figure out how long he can stand the mind-blowing wind-up.

 

Jack wasn’t altogether pleased about his absence, but that’s part of the point, in a way.

 

He takes a sip of his coffee, glad of a short stint here in the TIC to get his head in the game.  It’s soothing, fingering the balls; they’re a bit like worry beads, and far less embarrassing to fondle than the other purchases he’s made recently.  Jack’s current toy kick definitely has its benefits, but, well, it’s Jack; sometimes they’re _mortifying_ moments. Like discovering that Jack stores his favorites in an _actual_ toy chest, a battered relic of the thirties painted with cavorting pandas and elephants. Like Owen finding the Glitter Probe Double Pleasure Pak in the SUV glove compartment where Jack had carelessly left it.  Only the fact that it was sitting atop Owen’s Britney/Xtina mix tape had allowed them to reach an I-won’t-tell-if-you-won’t truce.

 

The thing is…Ianto likes the toys, he really does, and gets that there’s a…compliment of sorts, buried in Jack’s current enthusiasm; but there are nights when he’s knackered before the fun starts, so to speak, and all he really wants is five minutes with Jack’s mouth or hands to ensure a good sleep.  He doesn’t need the pressure to stay constantly inventive, the reminders of Jack’s immensely vaster experience and desperately shorter attention span.  Maybe it’s like ordering fancy Italian or French for a change from the kebabs and pizza and Chinese, but it’s all still takeaway, and Jack crams it all down with the same greed, regardless, as if he’s gone without for too long.

 

Maybe he has.  Ianto doesn’t ask.

 

What he really misses are the times before, when his suit and aftershave and a few well-timed brushes were enough to keep the tension crackling between them all day.  And for all that Jack’s been encouraging him to unleash his inner dom, he’s just an impatient, _cheating_ bugger at bottom.  Bottom. Hah. An hour or two with the cock-ring or butt-plug just finds Jack cornering him in the TIC, shucking trousers and threatening to tie him up in the bead curtain if he doesn’t fuck him that _instant_. You’d think _Jack_ was twenty-six, not umptedy-fuck-years-old and should really have some impulse control by now.

 

So Ianto’s thinks it’s not just down to the right toy, but the right…presentation.  If Jack’s going to cede a little when it comes to time and place, it’s down to Ianto to provide a few incentives. He looks forward to reminding Jack what he’s missed lately.  He thumbs the spheres in his pocket one more time for luck, and pushes the button to head downstairs.

 

\-----------

Opening moves find Jack in the shower, making a pleased hum when Ianto wraps one arm around his chest and slips the other down to finger his arse, changing to a “What the _whoa_ ,” with the first kiss of metal slipping inside.

 

“Quiet,” Ianto says, pushing the balls upward and using one finger to roll the mercury sphere over the prostate. “Here’s the deal,” and he teases the string downward so that it trails outside.  Jack groans gustily. “You can do what you like with them, but you don’t get to remove them, you don’t get to come.  Not til I say.  And no cheating, or I’ll incinerate all your toys and put you on decaf for a month. Let’s see how many rounds you can go,” grazing Jack’s nipples lazily and giving a slow lick to his Adam’s apple, “and who’s really got the balls of steel here.”

 

He steps out of the shower.  “The others’ll be here in ten.  Coffee and pastry in the conference room.  Oh, and Jack? Don’t forget the pants.”

 

He’s laid them on the bed with Jack’s shirts: padded and cupped in front, with an easy-access opening in the rear.  Jack has no shame about walking around with his trousers tented, but Ianto prefers subtlety in all things, and doesn’t want the others to catch on too soon.  He cocks an ear, hears a satisfying moan from the shower – if Jack wants a preliminary wank, fine – and then heads upstairs.

 

\------------

“ – so there’s still a margin of error for both time and place, but I think the algorithms work,” Tosh is saying.  “And it looks as though we’ll get a test run this evening.  The software’s predicting something around six. I’m betting it won’t be anything big, but if I’m wrong, it’ll give me some good data to make corrections.”

 

Ianto risks a glance at Jack.  He’s tipping back in his chair, legs akimbo as usual, except – no, he’s rocking back and forth slightly, the chair faintly creaking. Ianto has to school the smile out of his features.  Jack’s eyelids flutter and drop as Tosh pursues her explanations, and his lips part minutely.  He visibly jerks when she calls for his opinion, and a flush rises from his open collar.  Good job.

 

Jack looks directly at him for a moment, pupils a bit unfocused, and automatically answers, “Good job, Toshiko. So, we’ll break this afternoon if all’s quiet, have an early dinner, and be ready to rock at six.” He waggles his eyebrows slightly: the words _afternoon delight_ might as well be stamped between them.

 

Ianto keeps his poker face, but puts a little sternness in his eyes “Tosh has to keep an eye on the monitor, Gwen’s got to spread more disinformation at the police station, and Owen and I have the medical supplies to unpack,” he says.  “Thirty boxes.  You can either help us or get a start on your paperwork backlog. Either way, we’ve got plenty to occupy us all day.” 

 

Jack gives him an assessing look, not his usual puppy-dog expression, and Ianto can all but see the wheels turning.  He stands, straightens his tie, and makes a brisk exit.  Round one an unqualified success.

 

\----

Round two brings the massive shipment of medical supplies, and it’s one reason he’s planned this for today.  He’s unloaded the boxes more or less haphazardly around the med bay, to Owen’s loud disapproval, so that there’s a lot of bending and grunting and straining biceps involved in shifting and lifting them.  It’s Jack’s idea of workplace porn, he knows, and sure enough he’s standing at the rail and eyeing Ianto’s arse while he and Owen wrestle with the new dissection table.  Ianto doesn’t have to look twice to note that he’s resumed his back-and-forth rocking.

 

Time to give the game a little twist.

 

Ianto straightens and gasps, putting one hand to his back as though to gentle a spasm, and manages a quite artistic sideways stagger before plopping clumsily into Owen’s chair.

 

Jack’s there in a flash, one hand to the small of his back, calling for an icepack with a flattering measure of fuss, and Owen rolls his eyes before strolling up to check Ianto over.  He pronounces a muscle pull, with an unspoken _don’t worry, he’ll be fit for shagging in a tic_ , and commandeers Jack to help with the box-shifting.  It’s Ianto’s turn to enjoy the show: trousers stretching tight over Jack’s arse as he bends and lifts, the flush returning and fine drops of sweat beading along his brow, much more than the actual exertion should produce.  Not as though Jack’s not fit, after all.  Ianto hears the beginning of a groan, turned to a grunt for Owen’s benefit, and doesn’t bother this time to hide his smile.

 

______________

 

The afternoon lull brings kebabs and curry, kindly fetched by Gwen in light of Ianto’s presumed injury. He’s refused pain meds, of course, but snags a beer en route back to his monitor. Jack, grown distinctly snappish, has bolted his kebab and fled to the greenhouse, where he’s stalking across the bank of glass wall with his hands in his pockets, pausing now and again to glare at Ianto as he rocks, heel-toe-heel.  Ianto takes a long pull of his beer, giving Jack the benefit of his Adam’s apple bobbing in profile, and snakes his tongue out to lick a little condensation from the bottle. He hears a faint thud as Jack presses his hips into the glass. Victory in sight, and he takes another mouthful to stop himself smirking.

 

“Oi, Jack!  You gonna help me finish with these boxes?”  Owen yells, emerging from the med bay. “Jesus, he’s got a right bug up his arse today,” he adds to no one in particular.

 

Ianto chokes and sprays beer all over his monitor.

 

All right. Call round three a draw.

 

\-------------

Six o’clock comes and goes, and the Hub denizens grow restless.  Owen’s still mucking about the med bay, elbow-deep in petri dishes and preservatives.  Tosh babysits the Rift monitor, anxiously re-entering her prediction algorithms to see if the results change.  Gwen’s nattering on the phone to Rhys, doling out her nightly portion of excuses for working late.  Ianto’s clearing the inventory paperwork and keeping half an eye on Jack’s drift from pillar to post, on his now-nonstop rocking. 

 

Impressive that he’s held out this long, actually.  Ianto himself has taken a discreet break, wanking to memories of drawn-out  teasing of sensitive nerves, and picturing a few possible scenarios for the final round to come.  He spills to the image of Jack’s face, unguarded and unraveling, a hectic pinprick flush over his cheekbones and the blue of his eyes swallowed in black.

 

He resumes his gimping about the Hub, aware of eyes following him, and hopes his stiff-legged gait calls up memories of a time or two Jack’s fucked him bow-legged.  By this point, Jack might as well be sporting thought bubbles, concern and frustration battling back and forth like the rhythm of his rocking.

 

“Right,” Jack says at seven-fifteen. “I’m giving this another half-hour, max, and then everyone can go home.  Tosh, you’ll take the remote monitor.” Another thought bubble as he levels a stare at Ianto: _we’ll find a workaround so don’t even THINK about leaving._

 

And just at that moment, the Rift alarm goes. Jack sighs noisily, and Tosh scampers back to her monitor.  “Small spike,” she calls out, just a hint of triumph in her tone.  “Dockside near Splott.  Could be space junk, don’t think it’s big enough to be a life form.”

 

“Owen and Gwen, you bring the SUV around,” Jack says.  “Tosh, you keep monitoring here, stay on comms.  Ianto…shit, your back,” Jack remembers, chagrined.  “Okay, forget it, you can switch with Tosh.”

 

“It’s all right, Jack,” Ianto says quietly, glancing at Tosh, who’s shaking her head faintly; he knows she’s itching to fine-tune her prediction software.  “Best if Tosh stays here. I can handle the car computer.”

 

Their usual departing scramble ensues, Jack holstering his Webley and Ianto snagging the portable scanner and Jack’s coat.

 

And it’s also just as usual that when Ianto steps on the lift, he holds up the coat, and Jack just as automatically turns around to shrug it on as they start to rise.

 

But as soon as they’re out of Tosh’s sightline, Ianto whips one arm across Jack’s chest, pulling him back hard against him, and fumbles open his belt with the other hand. He shoves Jack’s trousers down and snaps open the rear of the pants, one hand snaking between his legs to curve over his balls.  Jack grunts, “Now?” in an almost amused tone, and Ianto nips his ear. “Yes, now,” tugging gently on the oiled string as Jack gasps gratifyingly. “You know you’re gagging for it,” he whispers, and he begins the slow, firm downward tug, “and you’ve been after me for weeks to get you off on the lift,” and he presses firmly behind his balls as the metal spheres slither out into his other palm. Jack keens, at a pitch Ianto didn’t know he was capable of, and his hips stutter and jerk.

 

And Ianto knows, can pinpoint the sequence of sensation: the sudden change in pressure, the belly-warmth that pools abruptly and then overflows, balls drawing up and cock pumping with nary a touch. He’d come as hard as he ever had in his life, and by the looks of it – yes, Jack’s knees buckle and he sags in Ianto’s arms, panting open-mouthed, eyes shuttered, and Ianto could almost come again himself from the sight.

 

And then they’re on the Plass, Jack’s trousers around his knees and a no-doubt-cooling stain spreading over the pants.

 

Jack finally opens his eyes, looks down at himself almost dispassionately, then glances upward. “You’re evil, you know that? “ he says conversationally, tugging the pants down and wiping himself as he shucks them.

 

Ianto grins, fishes a pair of silk boxers out of a pocket (the giraffe ones, Jack likes those) and tosses them over.  “Not evil,” he replies. “Just patient.  Oh, and Jack?” He leans forward, lips grazing Jack’s ear.  “It’s not the equipment,” he breathes.  “It’s what you do with it.”  And he steps off the lift platform and raises an arm to greet Owen and Gwen, roaring up in the SUV.

 

It’s not the toys, it’s the players; and Ianto will take the long game, every time.


End file.
